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The manger rough was all his rest;

       The cattle, having fed,

       Stood silent by, or closer pressed,

       And gravely wonderèd.

       (Ah, Lord, if only that my breast

       Had cradled Thee instead!)

      NEIGHBORS OF THE CHRIST NIGHT

      NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH

      Deep in the shelter of the cave,

       The ass with drooping head

       Stood weary in the shadow, where

       His master's hand had led.

       About the manger oxen lay,

       Bending a wide-eyed gaze

       Upon the little new-born Babe,

       Half worship, half amaze.

       High in the roof the doves were set,

       And cooed there, soft and mild,

       Yet not so sweet as, in the hay,

       The Mother to her Child.

       The gentle cows breathed fragrant breath

       To keep Babe Jesus warm,

       While loud and clear, o'er hill and dale,

       The cocks crowed, "Christ is born!"

       Out in the fields, beneath the stars,

       The young lambs sleeping lay,

       And dreamed that in the manger slept

       Another white as they.

       - - - - -

       These were Thy neighbors, Christmas Child;

       To Thee their love was given,

       For in Thy baby face there shone

       The wonder-light of Heaven.

      CRADLE HYMN

      ISAAC WATTS

      Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber;

       Holy angels guard thy bed;

       Heavenly blessings without number

       Gently falling on thy head.

       Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment,

       House and home, thy friends provide;

       All without thy care, or payment,

       All thy wants are well supplied.

       How much better thou'rt attended

       Than the Son of God could be,

       When from heaven He descended,

       And became a child like thee!

       Soft and easy is thy cradle;

       Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,

       When His birthplace was a stable,

       And His softest bed was hay.

       See the kindly shepherds round him,

       Telling wonders from the sky!

       When they sought Him, there they found Him,

       With his Virgin-Mother by.

       See the lovely babe a-dressing;

       Lovely infant, how He smiled!

       When He wept, the mother's blessing

       Soothed and hushed the holy child.

       Lo, He slumbers in His manger,

       Where the honest oxen fed;

       —Peace, my darling! here's no danger!

       Here's no ox a-near thy bed!

       Mayst thou live to know and fear Him,

       Trust and love Him all thy days;

       Then go dwell forever near Him,

       See His face, and sing His praise!

       I could give thee thousand kisses,

       Hoping what I most desire;

       Not a mother's fondest wishes

       Can to greater joys aspire.

      AN ODE ON THE BIRTH OF OUR SAVIOUR

      ROBERT HERRICK

      In numbers, and but these few,

       I sing thy birth, O Jesu!

       Thou pretty baby, born here

       With sup'rabundant scorn here;

       Who for thy princely port here,

       Hadst for thy place

       Of birth, a base

       Out-stable for thy court here.

       Instead of neat enclosures

       Of interwoven osiers,

       Instead of fragrant posies

       Of daffodils and roses,

       Thy cradle, kingly stranger,

       As gospel tells,

       Was nothing else

       But here a homely manger.

       But we with silks, not crewels,

       With sundry precious jewels,

       And lily work will dress thee,

       And, as we dispossess thee

       Of clouts, we'll make a chamber,

       Sweet babe, for thee

       Of ivory,

       And plaster'd round with amber.

      CHRISTMAS SONG

      EDMUND HAMILTON SEARS

      Calm on the listening ear of night

       Come heaven's melodious strains,

       Where wild Judea stretches far

       Her silver-mantled plains;

       Celestial choirs from courts above

       Shed sacred glories there;

       And angels with their sparkling lyres

       Make music on the air.

       The answering hills of Palestine

       Send back the glad reply,

       And greet from all their holy heights

       The day-spring from on high:

       O'er the blue depths of Galilee

       There comes a holier calm,

       And Sharon waves, in solemn praise,

       Her silent groves of palm.

       "Glory to God!" The lofty strain

       The realm of ether fills:

       How sweeps the song of solemn joy

       O'er Judah's sacred hills!

       "Glory to God!" The sounding skies

       Loud with their anthems ring;

       "Peace on the earth; good-will to men,

       From heaven's eternal King!"

       Light on thy hills, Jerusalem!

       The Saviour now is born:

       More bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains

       Breaks the first Christmas morn;

       And brighter on Moriah's brow,

       Crowned with her temple-spires,

       Which first proclaim the new-born light,

       Clothed with its Orient fires.

       This day shall Christian lips be mute,

       And Christian hearts be cold?

      

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